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Jonathan: It all started when, in the summer of 2004, we re-tiled the roof of An Gàrradh Mòr – our first ever experience of domestic building work. Before then construction was something I did for a living, and was left at the site cabin with the muddy boots, hard hat and drawings. Until we came here, the nearest we came to building improvements – to any of our numerous homes over the years – was to redecorate indoors, maintain the external woodwork, or lay some paving in the garden! Of course we knew that we’d have to retile the roof: it was, you might say, part of the deal. But then came the great hurricane 11 January 2005: and after that our lives were turned head over heels. It wasn’t just the repairs of storm damage: the trauma of those dreadful days forced us to understand that, here in the Hebrides, a house left to itself could within ten years become unfit for habitation, and within twenty could be reduced to dereliction. We were going to have to let go of our naive dreams of an easier, laid-back life, and work harder and be more ambitious – or we’d go under. Life here is uphill, into the wind, all the way, and without drive and some degree of ambition the weather will have the better of you sooner rather than later. So we didn’t just replace the greenhouse we’d lost to the storm, or the polytunnels: we added to them, buying four new heavy duty greenhouses, building them on heavy foundations to hold them down, reinforcements to strengthen them, and a timber extraskeleton and shielding to protect them from the worst that Hebridean winters – Outer Hebridean winters! – could throw at them. But we didn’t stop there …

Jonathan. My Dad died in April. It was not a surprise – in fact it was what he wanted. Quite simply, he’d had enough, and he refused food, drink and medication as long as was necessary. Mentally, there was nothing wrong with him – other than a sticky memory key. That was easy to work around: I’d press my own MR key and on we would go. But – and forgive the shift of metaphors – there’d been a series of physical problems over the past twenty years or so, increasingly with the exhaust manifold, and you know how it is, if you leave that kind of thing, they’re difficult to fix, and the spares just aren’t available, and all you end up with is bodges and breakdowns. It wouldn’t be so bad if you could get yourself out of the garage and out on the open road ; but you’ve been there, you’ve seen it, and reading the book is just not the same. There comes a time when it’s just not worth filling up the tank any more. My Dad and I had a difficult relationship. He was a man of fixed and immoderate views, intolerant, and with a quick – often violent – temper. Mum got the worst of it, both mentally and physically – but we all suffered, myself and my two sisters. It’s the psychologial scars that cut deepest and are least likely to heal over. … Though we shared many characteristics – both physically and in personality – Dad and I were very different where it mattered most – in values and aspirations. Dad’s expectations of us were measured in terms of income and authority – ie one’s job: he seemed unable to comprehend, let alone understand and respect – a life framed by other goals, other definitions of ‘success’ or what constitutes a life well lived. After Mum died a few years ago, I found it easier to limit our increasingly irregular phone conversations to safe subjects ; and chief amongst these would be exploring the many and varied districts of Britain, whether camping, or with a motorhome, or (as we did for many years) by canal and river, and more recently, by Google Earth and Wikipedia. For if there is one thread that runs through the whole of my life, from my earliest recollections to my still-lingering hopes for the future, a thread that starts with my Dad and continues with my own two daughters, Rebecca and Catherine, it is that thread that runs up mountain tracks, along old Roman Roads, over styles, through tunnels, into old industrial wastlands … until, whether carried by tide or temptation, we have explored every hidden corner and far-flung place that is or might possiblybe. For that spirit of adventure we share: Thanks, Dad.

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Jonathan: I was absorbed in the design of a roundabout, listening to Rachmaninov’s 2nd Piano Concerto. Why I turned my head to the window at all, I can’t now recall. But what I saw I haven’t seen for many a month, but if I’m honest that’s just because I haven’t really looked – I’ve been ‘too busy’. Only now in winter does the light and weather do justice to the drama and intricate detail of the landscape. What did I see? Just that – the landscape, not just as a rough canvas of land sea and sky that serves as a backdrop for our own lives, but having a being and purpose all of its own, and in which we have but a small and fleeting part to play.